


The Empty House

by ohtigermytiger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, I don't know how to tag this on here, M/M, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtigermytiger/pseuds/ohtigermytiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock had been so sure he could do it. So sure he could dissolve Moriarty’s empire alone and stride back into his old life. Easy peasy. So sure, so fucking sure, that he hadn’t even hesitated for a moment before saving his own life."<br/>[I don't know how to description...]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had this idea for a while now and just finally decided to write it up and get it out... Let me know if it's utter crap before I run with it any further.   
> Obviously I don't own the characters (though Sebby hasn't even shown up, yet, so he's technically still just ACD) and all that jazz. So don't sue me, or whatever, I'm poor enough already.

Sherlock knocked on the door to the flat. He still had the key, of course, but he wanted it to play out this way. 

_John will open the door. John will open the door and see me._

John had seen Sherlock quite often since the fall. His eyes would glaze over after seeing a flash of a strangers' pale wrist or curiously shaped eyes or even thumbs flipping up a coat collar against the chilled wind. Yes, John had seen him many times. But what he'd dismissed as insanity, as an utter lack of mental stability in the absence of the detective, Sherlock could now prove was real. 

_Yes, John. It's me. I'm home._

Some nights, alone with syringes and tarnished spoons, Sherlock would scrawl it over and over onto empty cigarette cartons, the walls, his arms. 

_I'm home._

_It's me._

_John._

_John, I'm home._

His ink would run dry before the sleepless night was over, but the movement was soothing. Comforting. Things he never allowed himself to think in the garish light of the day. 

And Sherlock, in his time alone, had predicted every angle of his return. Had thought of every variable and outcome. 

_John is a soldier._

_John is a good man._

_John is angry._

_John is depressed._

_But John is safe, and I am alive._

Sherlock knocked at the door again, impatient. Buzzing. He needed to know which outcome was the correct one. Would John dissolve? Would he strengthen? 

A small hope in his ribs whispered that he might hold him. John might need to feel Sherlock close and warm and real against him before he reacted. Before tears and anger, before anything else, John would love him. 

It was easy enough to survive on that. Hope was not something Sherlock was accustomed to, and he'd latched onto it like a child, clinging and desperate. 

Another knock. 

He knew John was home. He'd seen him get out of the taxi. He'd tripped a bit on the curb and given it a nasty look before moving forward and pushing the door of the flat open and shutting it behind him after a moment of hesitation. Like he was waiting for someone else to pass before he closed it. Sherlock had felt something tighten in his chest and he'd nearly sprinted across the street to fill the gap that was still being left for him before it was gone. But he had schooled himself. Patience. 

So, yes, John _was_ home. And yet there was no noise in the flat. No shuffling of feet, no kettle boiling, no water running for the shower. 

He rapped again. Harder. His knuckles stung from the force, yet it felt good. He was home. He was home and John was home. And why wasn't he opening the door? 

Perhaps John was delusional. Expected the ghost of his former flatmate to be answering the door for him. But that made little sense. Sherlock had rarely answered the door in their time together and John would certainly not be imagining that even if he were imagining him at all. 

This was not part of the plan. It was just supposed to be a knock. Then the door was supposed to open for him, John standing there in the deep red dress shirt he'd worn to the clinic today. Sherlock knew he'd have untucked it from his trousers, loosened the top two buttons. John always patted his own neck once he'd done that, like a congratulatory motion for having suffered through the high collar all day. Then he would stretch his shoulders back, straightening his spine and making a low pleased noise before setting about to get himself his evening tea. Sherlock leaned his forehead against the door frame for a moment and just immersed himself in the normalcy of that routine, of how much he needed that background, that presence. He'd been fragmented in its absence, the mottled skin of his inner arms proved that without a doubt. It was obvious, even without the visual confirmation. Sherlock Holmes had broken apart, crumbled slowly like the buildings he’d huddled in over the last few years. He was cracked and swaying and fragile. John would fix that. John was a doctor. 

But there was no sound, still. After all this time, after every kill Sherlock had made. Cracked spines and slit throats and stolen breath. After everything. He needed the door to open. Sherlock sucked in a breath and pushed his palms against his eyes, trying to abate the stinging sensation that made his sinuses constrict and his chest tingle. 

Deep breath. 

"John." 

It was not a question, just a confirmation that, yes, John was here, John was home. And that, in turn, meant it was over and Sherlock himself was finally _home_. The detective pressed harder against his eyes, the veins in his wrist pulsing too fast against his cheeks. 

"John. Please." 

There was a small sound from behind the door, almost imperceptible, a huff of breath. Sherlock started, his hands jolting away from his face and to the doorknob. 

"Come on then. 'S unlocked." 

He twisted the handle and was inside before he had time to process what had been said. 

_Stop._

That was not John's voice. That was _not_ John's voice. And the blond military man sitting on the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips, was not John. 

The man smirked and waved his hand lazily at the detective before clearing his throat and drawling in a falsely classless accent. 

“Surprise.” 

  


It didn’t take much time to deduce. After the initial shock, Sherlock took in the details. That was, after all, what the [former] consulting detective was known for, seeing everything and understanding what picture the pieces of every puzzle made. This was a puzzle he very much wished he could pull back apart, abandon it in a disused coat closet or linen cupboard. 

_Small flecks of blood in the coarse stubble on his chin_

_Bulge of a Browning tucked into the holster worn at his side._

_Scars across the knuckles of both fists._

_More pronounced scar through his left brow._

_Another over the bridge of the nose._

_Military haircut grown past regulation._

_Colonel Sebastian Moran._

The real one. Not the Sebastian Moran Sherlock had killed in Belarus. Not the one he’d _needed_ to kill before returning to John. And in this lightning fast realization only one word filled the detective’s mind. 

“Fuck.” 

Sebastian smirked, standing and pushing his hands into the pockets of a well-worn motorcycle jacket. 

“Eloquent as ever, Holmes,” His voice was flat, no menace, no threat. Emotionless, really, until the detectives’ name passed his lips. Then it was something else entirely. Something that felt like a damp blanket to keep out the chill or like hands shaken under false pretense. Sherlock stared at the tall blonde, his eyes so wide he could feel the ache in his cheeks, his brow. 

_No._

_No no no no._

_Fuck_ . 

Sherlock felt his knees buckle and he was on the ground. His body didn’t resist it, his right cheek hitting the carpet as he fell, his arms limp, crumpled awkwardly at his sides. Acid burned at his throat and his diaphragm compressed trying to expel it. Nothing came. The hidden benefit of not eating for days at a time. His eyelids fluttered quickly, taking in the scene around him in fragmented slides, pictures. 

Then he saw. Saw the hole in John’s chair. Blood seeped outwards from it, into the tartan pattern of the throw, into the tired fabric of the chair itself. And then something did rise in his throat. 

And Sherlock was screaming. 

Sebastian rolled his eyes and slowly approached him, crouching down and yanking the detective up by his hair. The ex-colonel shifted down to his knees and pulled him to him, Sherlock’s back to his chest. He held a strong arm across the man’s collarbones and clamped his free hand over his mouth, stifling him. 

“Yeah, you thought you were the hero, mate, didn’t you? Selfish, pompous, genius, idiot. You’re the hero who got them all killed.” Sebastian’s lips grazed his ear as he spoke and Sherlock imagined himself disintegrating from that spot. Cracking apart, fissures breaking across his face, down his throat, over his shoulders. He whimpered into Moran’s hand and shook. 

But he was right. Sherlock had been so sure he could do it. So sure he could dissolve Moriarty’s empire alone and stride back into his old life. Easy peasy. So sure, so _fucking_ sure, that he hadn’t even hesitated for a moment before saving his own life. 

_Wrong_ . 


	2. Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome home."

Sherlock passed out rather quickly after all the screeching he’d done. His body had just gone limp, and for a moment Sebastian thought he’d been cutting off his air supply accidentally. He hadn’t. Holmes had shut down like a computer, made a few last sounds and then the screen went blank. Seb slowly released him, shifting him so he lay flat on the floor. His forefinger reached out to touch the carpet burn on the detective’s cheekbone and he pulled a mobile from his own jacket pocket. He toggled through the menu, other hand gently splayed over the side of Sherlock’s face, and opened the most recent recording in the mobile phone Sherlock had left on the rooftop of Bart’s three years earlier. There were a few minutes of muffled verbal foreplay and then there it was, that lilting voice in a phrase that Sebastian knew by heart. 

“I see. You’re not ordinary… No. You’re me. _You’re me!_ ” 

Moran paused it just there and rolled forward, his forehead pressing into the floor. 

_Jim is not gone._

_He’s here._

_He’s right here._

Sebastian slid down to lie on his side, staring at the detective’s profile. He was thinner than he remembered, pale skin stretched tight over his features. It had always been from a distance, through a scope or in photographs, but Seb knew he hadn’t always looked so… lifeless. 

As if the mere thought had flipped a switch Sherlock’s eyes opened. His lungs expanded and his lips parted, but Sebastian was quick and moved his hand back over the detective’s mouth. 

“It’s done. Stop screaming,” He pressed against his mouth once, then pulled his hand away. Sherlock did as he was told and after a long silence he darted up, legs pushing him off the ground and away from Sebastian towards the kitchen. The blonde sat up slowly and stretched, before standing and following after him. A kitchen drawer rattled open and metallic shuffling followed, so it came as no surprise that Sherlock held a weapon, a scalpel, in an outstretched hand when Seb approached him. 

“You killed my… You killed John.” 

“You’re the genius, Holmes, you’re probably right,” He leaned against the refrigerator and stared at him blankly, eyes never dipping to the blade pointing towards his chest. 

“You… It’s… You shot him in his _chair_. You killed him in our…” Sherlock trailed off, stumbling two steps forward. 

“I sure did,” Seb nodded, guiding him through it patiently. 

“I have to kill you, now. I have to. I-” 

“But you won’t.” Sebastian moved forward, closing the gap between them until the scalpel pressed into his chest through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt. Sherlock looked down at it and then back up into his eyes. For someone Seb had always seen as relentlessly pompous, absolutely confident, Holmes now looked more childish. More _hollow_ than anything, really. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you need a soldier,” He paused nodding his head at Sherlock slowly, “And I need a genius.” 

Moran watched him as it sunk in. 

Waited. 

Emotions flickered over Holmes’ face, easily readable despite the sullen-faced composure he’d had back in different times. Sebastian knew well the feeling that was rippling over Sherlock and leaving him no better than skinned, like his muscles and nerves were exposed to the words he heard. Seb had felt it, too, three years earlier, when the attention was elsewhere and he was staring down at blood sunken into the pores of the concrete roof. It felt like being burned alive, kneeling down and checking that it was _real_ , that it was really Jim with his skull shot through and not some illusion the little Irish genius has conjured. It had not been an illusion. But he’d had time to toughen again, and he’d had a purpose the second he’d pressed play on that recording Holmes had so conveniently left behind. So he’d waited while the detective sleuthed his way through the empire, watched him kill and maim and hunt. 

He became obsessed. 

Setting up a fake version of himself for Sherlock to kill had been a little too easy, disappointingly so, and he’d done it without more than a phone call from an old burner out of his gun case. He’d wanted a challenge, a distraction from the all-encompassing _need._ To have him, to take him apart and put him back together as some blurred consultant amalgamation of the two men who’d shaken hands before the world fell apart. Sebastian had spent much of his life looking through a scope and now his whole mind seemed to settle into that format, Sherlock Holmes as the target. When he’d seen the incredible satisfaction the man had gotten twisting a knife into his decoy (tall, blonde, military, scarred, violent, perfect) he’d felt it himself, pressing a hand to the flat expanse of his chest and feeling the sticky coagulation of blood that wasn’t really there. He’d followed Holmes from Belarus to Paris, to Province, to a tiny, nameless town in the snowy Russian desert and he still slid his fingers over his heart to make sure it was still whole and undamaged. 

Of course it wasn’t. 

So now, when Sherlock’s face finally settled into a look of wary acceptance, Seb felt the old phantom wound dry up, knit back together. He breathed in deeply, clearing the dried blood he’d felt caked in his lungs all that time, and the scalpel dug into his skin. Holmes’ eyes widened, as if somehow he too had felt the skin reconfigure under the sharp point of the scalpel and the tool dropped to the floor with a faint whistling before the clatter. It narrowly missed their feet, though neither bothered to watch its descent, staring at the more present danger (safety?) before them. Sebastian raised a hand to his shirt and wiped at the hint of blood gathering beneath it, a grin hitched one side of his lips when he raised the two fingers up, showing Sherlock what he’d accomplished. He leaned forward just slightly and placed the bloodied hand on his shoulder, steadying himself against the man he had stayed a step behind for so long. His voice came out low and cracked, a genuine tone three years out of use. 

“Welcome home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is as far as I've written because I'm sort of concerned it's a terrible idea and also a waste of time... I don't know. Teeeellll meeeee.


End file.
